I am a stranger but listen to me.
My son caught me late one night; sprawled on the kitchen floor.
My face wet from crying, and a stammering lips.
It’s easier to look at a stranger with a husky tone of “Good morning”
Welling from emotions. It is easier.
But not your son.
So I stood, grinned widely despite my bleeding.
I chased him through the garden as he ran through
Falling on the earth, eating the flowers.
He was happy. I was dizzy.
I picked a brush to paint my heart.
There’s a hole, my son points.
I mumble about oddities, my mistakes and the past.
I fill it with a pool of excuses, colours of sepia.
There’s still a hole, he says.
I was dizzy again, what paint was I missing?
I stumble to his room, a nest of toys, a quagmire of joy..
There are other ways to be happy, I rebuke.
Read a book.
Why aren’t you trying it? he says.
I know. I’m teetering on the edge of everything.